


A Ghost in the Machine

by alekszova



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Pining, a lot of guilt, but it's for a case, not in reference to the main characters, usage of the word "ghost" is pretty high up there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-04 21:06:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15849369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alekszova/pseuds/alekszova
Summary: Gav800 Week Day 1: WorkGavin tries to become a better person after killing Connor in the archive room, especially now that Connor has returned back to work at the DPD.





	A Ghost in the Machine

**Author's Note:**

> “Because I was conceived and born and I grew up. I'm breathing and my heart is beating and as much as it hurts ― as much searing, monumental pain it causes me ― I have to exist.”  
> Paper Valentine - Brenna Yovanoff

_November 11 th_

He decided on November 11th, just before the androids won, to be a better person. One good deed a day. Just a tiny thing. He decides this when he’s scrubbing his skin raw, when it is red and angry and close to bleeding from the force he is putting into it.

There is not a drop of Thirium on him. Not a single blue speck.

Still, he scrubs.

He scrubs because he can’t stop picture the way the blood looked, because he can’t stop thinking about the way the machinery crackled, the way the once clean room is now marred by the destruction of an android.

 _Just an android._ He’ll come back.

But what if he doesn’t? Why does it matter so much to him?

_It doesn’t. It doesn’t. **It doesn’t.**_

But he will be a better person now. He will try. _He will try._

 

 

_November 12 th_

There he is.

_A fucking ghost._

He walks into the precinct as surreal as he did a week prior. Sweeping through the area, past the desks, so solid and real but so— _wrong._ Connor should be dead. And here he is, suit in perfect condition, hair perfectly styled.

Solid. Real. _Wrong._

Gavin watches him disappear into Fowler’s office, flanked by Hank and another officer that Gavin doesn’t recognize. Through the glass, they talk. Or rather, Connor talks. His body is stiff, his hands don’t move from his side, his mouth moves in careful, deliberate words. Fowler yells. He argues. He stands and Hank yells back, their words muffled by the glass between him and them.

Not that he _wants_ to know.

Not that he _cares_.

It takes an hour before they are done fighting. The door opens, they exit, Connor sits at his desk where he always does. Gavin looks over to him, watching him as closely as he did when he was in the office, trying to dissect his movements.

He’s a detective. He should be good at this.

But Connor is unreadable. He is rigid and immobile and making calculated movements. He acts more machine now than he had before.

And then he looks over to Gavin, and something shatters. His face twitches and he turns quickly, bringing up a hand to hide his face in the guise of leaning on it. Hank doesn’t seem to notice, and it makes Gavin’s insides twist with—

With guilt?

Like he isn’t watching Connor in a public space, but instead that he is spying through a cracked door, flipping through a diary, privy to the inner thoughts and feelings of something he should not be seeing.

So, he looks away.

One good deed a day.

This is the first.

 

 

_November 16 th_

They’ve allowed him to return to work. Connor cannot decide if he is pleased or disappointed.

Part of him hoped to be fired. Maybe then he would have an excuse for not wanting to work here. Like he can’t come up for one himself other than the desire to be somewhere else. See _something_ else. Be _someone_ else.

But he’s also relieved, desperately happy that he has a place to go. He has no idea what else he could be or what he could do. This is where he belongs. This is what Connor was designed for. There is no other place for him but behind this desk or out in the field.

They’ve even decided upon giving him a gun, which he unloads and only carries empty. He never wants to use one again. _Never._ He doesn’t even like the weight of it in his hands or in his holster. He wants it gone from his sight, but he doesn’t want to be questioned. He keeps it on him, treats it like a reminder.

And, at least, here, in this place, he is not alone.

He loves Hank. He adores staying with him. He could not be luckier than to have a place to call home. But it is lonely in there, with only the two of them and Sumo. Connor doesn’t understand how Hank managed it. The silence. The too easy ability to turn to oneself when the mind goes quiet.

But he wasn’t, was he? He wasn’t at all. Hank’s memories haunt him the same way Connor’s do.

_Remember? Remember what you did? Remember?_

Connor could delete the memories. He has been seconds away from doing so, his hand on the button, on the switch, on the lever. _Get away. Get away. Get away._

But then who would he be?

And does he not deserve this? The guilt?

He remembers how Gavin looked at him and his skin crawls. He is _wrong_. He is _broken_. He is _not meant to be here._

Somehow, he has allowed Hank to fight for him to stay. Somehow, he has agreed to being here himself.

This place keeps him from being alone. It fills his head with the sounds of cups set on tables and forks scrapping against plates, of people chattering all around him in happy whispers, in angry shouts, in pleading tones. He does not get a moment of quiet to think about himself. That helps.

But only a fraction.

He has never felt more lonely than he has here, in the presence of others.

Even Gavin has a friend, leaning over his desk and laughing with him about something cruel.

He loves Hank. He adores staying with him.

But he is completely and utterly alone otherwise.

 

 

_December 13 th_

“You can’t have a Christmas party,” someone says. “It’s too early in the month. You should push it off until next weekend, when it’s closer to the actual holiday.”

“I asked everyone which date worked best, this is what they settled on,” Chris says. “And next weekend is too close to Christmas. Everyone is using their day off to go Christmas shopping or spending it solving whatever messed up Santa inspired murders happen. Connor, are you coming?”

He looks up from his screen, even though his thoughts were a million miles away. One solid, happy month he had before his own brain started to tune out the noise of his surroundings, turning it into the perfect white noise to remember—

“To your party?” he asks, forcing himself to speak the words.

“Yes.”

“Chris’ Christmas party,” Connor says, almost amused. “You’re inviting everyone?”

“Half of them won’t show up,” he says, shrugging. “It’s in three days, are you available?”

 _Is he available._ Connor has to hold back a small laugh. Of course, _of course_ he’s available.

“Yes,” he says, taking the card that Chris holds out to him. “Yes, of course I’ll come.”

 

 

_December 16 th_

“You’re really going?”

Gavin looks back to her, sighing and leaning against the edge of the desk, “Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?” Tina presses. “What does that even mean?”

“There’s nothing else to do tonight, what the fuck am I gonna do instead? Go home and watch the news?” he replies. “At least at Chris’ party there will be alcohol and idiots making mistakes.”

“Just don’t be one of them, alright?” she says, and her tone of sincerity is so genuine it makes him want to flinch.

When is he _ever_ an idiot?

(Plenty of times, oh, plenty of times.)

“You’re not going?”

“Fuck no,” she says, a small laugh. “I’ve got a date.”

“With that android chick?”

“No,” she says, her smile fading slightly. “No, she said she didn’t want to—”

She is the one to cut off her sentence as Connor passes by. Silencing herself to hide what she means. By the time Connor has come and gone, she clears her throat and doesn’t want to pick it back up again.

But he can guess what she means.

Humans die. Humans age. Humans are fragile creatures.

Androids—

They are perfection.

“That sucks,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says, waving her hand. “It’s understandable anyways. We’re terrible people, Gavin. We’re going to have to make a ten-year promise that we’ll get together and have kids or something so we don’t end up alone.”

She says it as a joke, but it slices through him like a knife. Maybe he doesn’t want to get married and have kids, maybe he does, he isn’t sure yet. All he knows is that he wants _something._

“It’s going to be a very sexless relationship,” he says, pulling his coat on. “I won’t care if you cheat on me.”

“Back at you.”

 

 

Gavin is at the party, which Connor probably should have anticipated. It doesn’t bother him. He keeps his eyes away from his, lingers in the doorway with his hands clasped together. He thought if he came here it might help him in some way.

He had hoped for the help to be making friends. A final leap past _Connor, android detective_ to _Connor, friendly detective, person, living being, something._ But nothing. It isn’t as if people are avoiding him—it is just that they are busy with other things.

The music, quiet and soft and typical Christmas songs. He doesn’t celebrate Christmas himself. He doesn’t care for holidays. They have no impact on him. But there is a present tucked under Hank’s tree for him and another for Sumo. He looked up twelve different tutorials to wrap them each as perfectly as he could. The neat corners and perfect lines helped soothe him.

“Hey.”

He turns, very slowly towards the voice even though he knows who it belongs to.

“Hello, Detective Reed,” he says, deciding to be as polite as possible. It hadn’t worked last time, but maybe things are different now. It’s been a month of them working together. Gavin doesn’t sneer at him, he doesn’t say nasty things to him like he expected. He is just silent.

 _Hey_ is the first thing that’s been said between them since the archive room.

“You know you don’t have to call me that.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you?”

“I prefer to keep professional boundaries in check,” he says. _Because you killed me and I don’t want to be on a first name basis with you._

“Whatever,” he says, shrugging. “You know—I—”

He pauses, his eyes flicking upwards. His face shifts.

“What?” Connor says, looking up to the same spot.

“Mistletoe.”

“Yes,” Connor says, feeling his stomach twist. “What about it?”

“You know it’s bad luck—”

“I’m not superstitious.”

“No,” Gavin says. “Of course not. Everything’s so fucking logical for you androids, isn’t it? So clear cut?”

No. It isn’t.

His insides are breaking apart.

“Listen, I didn’t—”

“If you’re superstitious, Detective Reed, maybe you should find someone else.”

“That’s not how it works,” he says, with a small laugh. “And I didn’t—”

“Fine,” Connor says, because he wants Gavin away from him.

He reaches over before he can say anything else, pulls Gavin the one step it takes to be in the doorway where the mistletoe hangs, presses his lips against his.

It’s his first kiss. Meaningless and lost and broken and _Gavin’s._

 

 

Connor’s mouth is surprisingly soft. His body is strangely human feeling against his own. If he had woken up this morning with memory loss—he would have never known the difference. The LED on his head is missing. The band was ripped from his suit. Either him or Hank spent the time it takes to undo the serial number and the patches.

The Connor pressed against him might as well be human.

But isn’t that the point? Isn’t that the point in all this? That they are, essentially, _human_?

Something shifts inside of Gavin as Connor’s hand brushes up the side of his waist, as his hand moves gently across his his face. His lips part, his hands tighten around the fabric of Connor’s jacket.

Suddenly, he doesn’t want this to end. Suddenly, something inside of him wants to kiss Connor and not do anything else.

How strange it is, that all it took was this. One tiny moment underneath mistletoe at a Christmas party. A kiss that means nothing. A conversation that was edging towards him saying something stupid.

And now—

Connor is different. His heart aches when they separate, when he see’s Connor’s perfectly intact head. _Not dead._

But he was.

Gavin can still smell the Thirium. Like window cleaner. Thick chemicals that pool around the floor at his feet.

“Was that good enough for you?” Connor asks, his tone not as angry as it was before. Annoyed. Not angry, as if something softened in him, too.

If he says no, will Connor kiss him again?

If he says yes, will Connor understand what he means?

“I—I—” he stumbles over his words, tries to catch up with himself. _Don’t be an idiot._ That’s what Tina told him. Here he is, being an idiot. “F-fantastic.”

“Fantastic?”

“Yeah,” Gavin says, seeing Connor’s expression, adjusting his tone to match it. Flat, as flat as he can manage it. “It was fucking fantastic.”

Connor rolls his eyes and pulls away. Gavin wants to reach out, stop his hand from leaving his waist. He hasn’t felt someone touch him like that in years. He hasn’t been kissed in years. He doesn’t want Connor to slip between the cracks and collect with all the other one night stands he’s been with.

Maybe it’s because he killed him.

Maybe it is just guilt trying to force his way into Connor’s life.

 _One good deed,_ he reminds himself.

He lets Connor go.

 

 

_January 21 st_

Gavin falls into the chair opposite of him, crossing his arms over his chest, starring at Connor for a long moment.

“Yes?” he prompts.

They haven’t talked much since he kissed him. It lingers on his lips like poison. If he thinks about it too much, he quite literally might self destruct.

Their only words to each other have been Connor saying _excuse me_ and Gavin muttering _sorry._ Which, he finds, would be surprising if it wasn’t the way he said it. Quiet and under his breath but still laced with annoyance. He doesn’t mean it.

“You looked all mopey,” Gavin says. “And it’s distracting me.”

His first thought:

_You were looking at me?_

His second thought:

_It was that easy to tell?_

“Feel free to keep your eyes somewhere other than my face,” Connor says, turning his own back to his computer screen. “It can’t be that hard, can it?”

“Fucking impossible.” Gavin mutters.

His eyes flicker back over to him. Gavin is not quick enough to hide his expression. He is too slow for what an android can see, but he is lucky. Connor doesn’t get to see it long enough to understand what it is. The blankness past all the complacency and arrogance he usually wears. It is all he is able to understand before it is gone.

“Is that all?” Connor asks. “You just wanted to come over here to tell me to be happier?”

Gavin moves in his seat, like he is suddenly uncomfortable with this topic. It shows on his face. He didn’t plan whatever he came over here to do. An impulsive thought, acted on too quick to decide on the words in advance.

“Look, I’m not worried about you or anything, alright?” he says. “But—you seemed like you needed to talk. And Hank’s out of town, so what are you going to do? Go home and tell Sumo all your troubles?”

“You know about Sumo?”

“Everyone knows about Sumo, Hank brought him in one time and nobody shut the fuck about him since. That’s not—That’s not what we’re talking about here.”

“Right,” Connor says. “You’re worried about me.”

“Fuck no,” he replies, sitting up straighter. “I’m just—My good deed for the day, alright? If you don’t want it—”

“No,” he says, his voice sharper than he means it to be. “I don’t.”

_Not from you._

“Fine, ghost boy.”

He flinches. He cannot stop himself from flinching. Gavin doesn’t seem to notice. He’s already gone.

_Ghost boy._

He is _not_ a ghost.

He is _not_.

 

 

_January 22 nd_

“Gavin, you have a new assignment.”

“What? No one else available?”

“You are aware that this is your place of employment, right?” Chris asks. “And that you have to actually do the work assigned to you?”

“Listen, I’m sure plenty of other people can—”

“Get over yourself, you have Connor assigned with you. It’ll take two minutes. It barely even counts as a case.”

“I have to work with _him?”_ Gavin says, standing. He doesn’t know how his voice comes off. He doesn’t know how he feels.

Should he be happy? Working with Connor? Should he be upset? Should he refuse?

_Connor._

His heart aches a little when he sees Connor on the other side of precinct, making his way towards his desk. There are strange times when he simply stands, walks in a large circle like he can no longer sit still.

“Yes. Him.”

“But—”

“The faster you go, the quicker the case will be over with,” Chris says. “And Connor’s nice. Just tell him sorry for being a dick and treat him with respect. It’s not difficult.”

Gavin looks towards Chris again, his hands clenching into fists at his side.

No, it’s not that difficult.

But, _yes_ , it is that difficult.

It’s like something in his head distorts everything he sees, it’s like no matter what he wants to say it has to come out angry and violent, it’s like he cannot keep his hands from wanting to punch something.

Something so easily taught by a father to a son.

Gavin wants to curl into himself. He wants to redirect it all at _himself_. He wants all of the hate for other people to be only for _himself_.

“Fine,” he says. “Only because I have to.”

 

 

“Detective Reed—” he starts, ready to push him away. He doesn’t want to talk to him. He doesn’t want the reminder of him.

_Fucking ghost._

_Ghost boy._

He doesn’t want another added to the list.

“We’ve been assigned a case together,” he says, his hands in his pockets, looking everywhere but Connor’s face. “We have to go.”

“Why?” Connor asks. “Shouldn’t—”

“Look, your fucking dad is out of town, alright? So, you’re stuck with me. It sucks. It’s shit. I don’t like it either, but I’d rather get this over with as soon as possible.”

“Right. Of course.”

“Connor—”

“No,” he says, cutting him off. He doesn’t want to hear any more words out of his mouth. “Let’s go.”

 

 

They take Hank’s car, which he left behind before he went on his trip. Gavin hates climbing inside of it. It’s the same junky thing he thought it was from the outside that it is on the inside. The seats feel wrong against his back. His entire body is rigid and unmoving.

“Don’t tell him I was in his precious fucking car,” Gavin says, looking to the window. “I don’t want to be beaten to death because you’re too much of a chicken to ride on a motorcycle.”

“Statistically speaking,” Connor says, his eyes on the road. “Motorcycles are one of the more dangerous vehicles to drive. And you don’t own a helmet. You should buy one.”

“Whatever.”

“Detective Reed, I really think it’s best—”

“The fuck do you care?” he snaps, looking back to him. His fingers are tightened around the wheel, the skin on them shimmering like it is struggling to keep its hold over the plastic. “You don’t give a fuck about me anyways.”

He doesn’t know why he does this. He doesn’t know why he snaps when the inside of his chest lit up at the thought that Connor might care about him. He makes mistakes and they’re so easy to rectify with an apology that he can never spit out.

 _One good deed._ He can’t even do that.

“Just because I don’t like you doesn’t mean I don’t want you alive.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He wants to reach out. He wants to hold his hand. He wants Connor to stop the car and kiss him and never let him go.

So strange—

Gavin knowing how much he wants him, how much he doesn’t deserve him. Even if he hadn’t killed him, he could never truly believe that Connor should be with him, that he could ever even want Gavin for a fraction of a second.

He is, after all, the _unwanted_ one. The _unlovable_ one.

“I’m—”

“We’re here,” Connor says, stopping the car. “What were saying?”

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry._

“Nothing.”

 

 

He is surprised to see that the dead body is of an android and not a human. Gavin hadn’t told him any details, just the address. Maybe he didn’t know, either.

It makes this all so much easier.

And for that, he hates this. He hates the way Thirium feels against his tongue, the way the mind of another android melding into his shudders through him.

Connor kneels down beside him. A PL600. Just like Daniel. Same face. Same perfectly sad face.

“This gonna take long?” Gavin asks from the doorway.

“No,” he replies, reaching out towards the body, reconnecting the wires where the leak has started. He feels the body slowly start up under his fingertips and he reaches forward before the WB200 can awaken fully.

He does not want to see the fear on his face that he saw on that Traci’s.

Connor pushes through the barriers of the android. They are weak, falling apart like dust at his touch. Through that numbness,

Into the pain.

It falls in reverse before him. The laying on the ground, hands desperately trying to stop the flow of blue onto the dirty floor around him. Him, crawling across the tile, trying to reach the door, trying to call for him. Him, standing, hands not being able to stop the blade from slicing clean through his palm.

The face of the killer, clear as day.

Connor retreats. It is more difficult to leave than it was to enter. The walls that stop him are tougher, built so much sturdier. He claws at them to get out, pulling back so violently he falls in reality, hitting the floor hard.

He feels hands on his shoulder, helping him upwards in his delirious state.

When he blinks past the memory still lingering in his eyes, past the sound of the android dying again, he meets Gavin’s eyes. They are standing as close as they were during that Christmas party.

Connor doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want to think about kissing someone who hates him at a _crime scene._

He takes a step back, but Gavin’s hands linger on his arms.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure—”

“I said I’m fine,” he says, yanking himself free of Gavin’s grip. He watches Gavin’s face twitch, falling back into that same unreadable blankness he had seen before.

Except it isn’t blank.

There is something in his eyes. Hurt? Sadness?

About what?

“I’m sorry,” Connor says quietly, quiet enough that Gavin might not be able to hear it, loud enough to smooth over the guilt in his chest for making that look appear in his eyes. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Gavin says, hands in pockets again, looking away. “So, what happened?”

“His past owner came after him,” Connor says, looking towards the knife on the ground. “She was angry that he left. He took care of her child for her. I think she was…”

“What?”

“Crime scenes aren’t the place for theories,” Connor mumbles, “We should look at evidence and evidence only. Theories get in the way. You start to only look for things that can support your personal opinion.”

“Right,” Gavin replies. “So, what else is there?”

He sighs and looks towards the knife, “The prints match hers. She was arrested for dealing drugs. The charges were dropped, but they’re still in the system.”

“Great, that wraps this up then?”

Connor turns back to him, “I suppose so.”

“Fantastic,” Gavin says, in the same sarcastic, cruel tone he had used a few weeks ago. “Let’s go. I fucking hate dead bodies.”

He looks over to the android, his stomach twisting into a knot, his chest constricting tight. So does he.

It isn’t fair.

It isn’t fair that he was able to come back. It isn’t fair that he died twice and is still here, still alive, still thinking and feeling and breathing and living.

And this android is dead.

 _Ghost boy. Fucking ghost._ Maybe Gavin is right. Maybe he is a ghost.

“Connor, you coming or what?”

“Yes,” he says, ripping his eyes away from the dead PL600. “I’m coming.”

 

 

_January 23 rd_

Connor has pulled him under so quickly.

He notices little things about his face or his movements that he hadn’t before. Maybe it’s because he’s watching him, looking for the little things that will prove he’s an android or prove he is—

Not human. But something more.

Gavin keeps staring at his mouth, especially when he talks. He’ll be at his desk and Connor will be standing, on the phone with his mouth moving and Gavin can’t take his eyes away.

 _Fuck._ He has to stop looking. He knows Connor is aware that he stares at him and he still can’t stop. He’s aware of how creepy it is but _he can’t stop_. His insides are bubbling over with the need to just see Connor’s face, to hear his voice.

When he had helped him up from the ground, the only thing keeping him from kissing Connor then was the blood on the ground, the CSI around them snapping photos, bagging up evidence.

Gavin had kept his fingers pressed against his mouth the entire time they drove back to the precinct, like if he didn’t he would crash the car with the need to touch Connor.

He wishes he was an android sometimes. He could replay that memory in perfect quality over again. That delicate moment when their lips touched, the feeling of Connor’s hand on his face, on his waist.

He is drowning in the want of it, and he has to keep fighting it.

He’s supposed to hate androids. He’s supposed to hate Connor.

_He doesn’t. He doesn’t._

 

 

They have officially become unofficial partners, which Connor quite hates the wording of. It bothers him, like it’s twisting up his insides. He’s just unsure of which part he hates. The contradiction or _Gavin._

Every time Connor sees him he’s reminded all over again of everything that happened.

And the terrible part—the ironic part—

He doesn’t even care that Gavin killed him. Not really.

He is just haunted by those words—

_Look at that, a fucking ghost._

Not Gavin killing him. Not the gun. Not the bullet. Not the spill of Thirium across clean white tiles. Not the crackling of broken machinery in his head.

But being called a ghost.

_A fucking ghost._

He is _not_ a ghost.

He is _not_.

But he saw Gavin’s face the first time he walked back into the precinct after that android killed him. He saw it again on November 12th, replaying over again like he truly is a _ghost_.

Is he?

_No. No. No._

He is sure of that. He is not a ghost.

Connor is many things.

A machine. A living being. A bad person.

But he is not a ghost.

 _This body is his._ He belongs in it. He belongs to it. _This is his_. This is not someone else’s. This is solid and real and he is here and he deserves to be here. _This is his._

“Ghost boy,” Gavin says, tapping at the edge of his desk. “We’ve got another case.”

“Don’t call me that,” Connor says, hardly looking up at him. He’s eyes are on the movement of Gavin’s hands against his desk. Small tapping his fingers make, random, like he can’t help himself. When he looks up to Gavin’s face, he watches it soften, watches him take in a deep breath.

“Fine,” he replies. “Let’s go, Connor.”

He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected Gavin to agree, and he hadn’t expected Gavin to use his _name._ Maybe it’s worse this way. A tiny crack in the angry façade. It makes him uncomfortable.

Especially with the way he said it. _Connor._ Not cruel. Not mocking. Just there. A normal name said in a normal voice. Almost apologetic.

“O-okay,” he says, standing. “Let’s go.”

 

 

It takes longer than last time. A long moment of Connor sweeping from room to room, investigating the evidence. Gavin didn’t even bother with his part, giving up almost the second he stepped in. One quick look Connor knew everything he could even think to say about it, anyways. He feels so unimportant, reduced to absolutely nothing.

This was his main fear when Connor arrived. How much better he would be at his job.

Not exactly even _his_ job. It wasn’t specific to him. There’s Tina and Ben and Hank and Chris and they are all good at what they do and they would have been pushed back, made to be just another drop in the unemployment pool. One percentage higher in the ever-growing number.

“It was a suicide,” Connor says, turning away from the body quickly. “Can we go? I’d like to send my data back to the computers.”

He can do that in a heartbeat. He can do it standing here. He just doesn’t want to be _here_ when he does it _._

Gavin doesn’t fight him. He hates dead bodies as much as anyone else, and one that has killed themselves—

It’s an ever-present reminder of all too much.

He doesn’t say anything as they leave. Not until they’re outside and he turns back to Connor, who is pulling in a shaking breath and stepping past him quickly.

“Are you alright?” he asks, regrets it the instant he says it by the way Connor looks back at him. He doesn’t take the question seriously. He doesn’t believe Gavin actually wants to know the answer.

_He does._

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” he presses, because he needs to make sure Connor knows. This one tiny, fragile moment in the dark of the night. Broken streetlights above them, flickering porch lights, bright moon. Soft, gentle. Their faces are lost in the shadows. “Come on it’s—”

“You don’t really care, so—”

“Who the fuck said I didn’t care?”

He watches Connor shift.

“We should just go.”

“Connor—”

“We should just go,” he repeats, walking quickly towards the car. “I need to log the data.”

“Right, let’s go log your fucking data,” he says, yanking his door open, sitting inside with his arms crossed.

_One good deed._

He already used it today. He shouldn’t have even bothered.

 

 

 

_January 24 th_

It didn’t bother him until he deviated—it didn’t bother him until Markus reached out and pulled him over to their side—it didn’t bother him until he stepped back in the precinct and saw the look Gavin gave him.

_A fucking ghost._

He is a ghost. **He is _not_ a ghost.**

Twice now he has died, twice now he has come back, twice now Gavin has been unprepared for him to haunt the hallways of the DPD.

Maybe that is why, when he is on the verge of falling apart, he does not turn to Hank. Maybe that is why he walks the street at nearly three in the morning with his hands in his pockets and his heart thundering.

Because he has to know.

_Why?_

He didn’t entirely expect Gavin to answer the door. He probably shouldn’t have even come here. He hadn’t considered the time and human sleep patterns until he knocked on the door. When it opens, Gavin looks up towards him, his mouth twitching in annoyance.

“The fuck are you doing here?”

His chest feels tight and constricted.

 _What is he doing here?_ It seems so stupid now to ask him.

_Why did you call me a ghost?_

Connor is not a ghost. He knows this. He knows this but it still lingers in him like he is—he died and his consciousness was converted to another body. He is a demon possessing a body.

“Fuck, are you crying?”

“W-what?” he asks, bringing a hand up. _No_ is what he should say, but he brushes the tear away from his cheek, stares at it with an almost wonder.

He is.

And the admission of that breaks him.

 

 

“I’m not a ghost,” he says, his voice shaking.

_Fuck._

What does he do now?

“I’m not a fucking ghost,” Connor says again, reaching up this time to shove Gavin backwards. It is not nearly with the force Connor could push him with, but still he stumbles, still Connor steps into the room, forcing him back and further and further until his back is against the wall. “Why would you say that? Why would you call me that? I’m not a ghost.”

“Connor—”

But he can’t get a word in. Connor is just repeating that over and over again. _I’m not a ghost. I’m not a ghost. I’m not a ghost._ With each one he falls apart more and more. Tears stream down his face as he reaches his hands up, hitting Gavin’s chest with them in weak attempts at violence.

He doesn’t know what to say. He never knows what to say. It’s why he turned so sharp and angry. It is so much easier to mock someone than it is to reply with kindness. It is so easy to fall into the pit of anger and misery than it is to do anything about being good.

He is not a good person.

But when Connor slumps against him, when his words turn soft and whispered against his neck as his head falls against Gavin’s shoulder, he reaches up slowly and wraps his arms around him.

One good deed a day. That is where he is meant to start, right?

He wasted it on that stray cat down the street, but it’s after midnight, technically it’s a new day. So, he can allow himself this. He can allow both of them this.

 

 

Gavin’s arms around him are stiff and uncomfortable. They rest like ice against his skin. Connor allows himself to linger there, just for a moment. There is comfort in the feeling of someone trying to console him, but he knows it’s _Gavin_. He knows that tomorrow this will be forgotten and it will be replaced with sneers and angry glances.

Connor steps backwards, feels Gavin’s arms falling around him, almost clinging to the fabric of his jacket as he pulls away. He cannot care about hurt feelings. He cannot care about the confused and broken look crossing Gavin’s face. He has to get away.

“Connor?”

_No._

He turns towards the door, whatever apology he thinks he should say for coming here is dying on his lips as he races out the door. Connor can hear Gavin coming after him, calling his name. He picks up his pace, doesn’t look back.

 

 

Gavin leans against the pole, waiting for the crosswalk light to turn green. Red lines stare back at him as he pulls the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, turning the lighter over in his hand.

The streets were too busy for them to park any closer. Some famous or rich dude died of _mysterious causes._ Which, he thinks, is likely codeword for _with a hooker_ or _with drugs._ Something that needs to be kept in check, covered up so not to sully the family name or the business.

Either way, the streets are far too cluttered for this. He doesn’t like it. The only thing making this better is that Connor is _here_ standing close to him.

He could almost reach out his hand and interlock their fingers.

Maybe he would if he thought Connor would reciprocate. But he never will, so it’s quite—

Quite _stupid_ to think about.

“Hey,” he says, closing the lighter and placing it in his pocket. “Connor, I’d—”

“I would like to apologize for my behavior,” Connor says quickly. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Fuck off,” he says, and realizes it sounds far too harsh for what he means. “You don’t have to apologize for shit.”

Connor looks over to him, his eyebrows slightly raised.

“Who gives a shit about what you did,” he continues, has to look away from those far too sad eyes. “It was my fault.”

The light flashes to green. Their conversation is lost amongst the movement of bodies.

 

 

_January 25 th_

Hank is coming back in four days.

He only has four more days of working with Connor.

He feels sick to his stomach at the thought of wanting a murder to happen so they can be out there, on the streets, _together._

Hank is coming back in four days.

He only has to last four more days dealing with Gavin.

Not as if Gavin won’t continue to haunt him after that. He isn’t going to disappear just because Hank is back in town. But at least they won’t have to work _together._

 

 

_January 26 th_

The dream is never the same.

In one, after he shoots Connor, his blood is red. _Human all along._ Some sick test devised against him.

In another, Connor gets the gun away from him, throws it across the room and steps forward, kissing Gavin and never stopping. Perkins never comes to the archive room. It is just them, there, for an eternity.

In this one, Connor wins. He falls to the ground and he’s bleeding and it’s not stopping and he can barely see past the red in his eyes, but he can make out the shape of Connor pointing the gun at him.

And he almost wants to yell _do it. Do it. I deserve it._

Eye for an eye.

They are perpetually stuck in that moment, Connor’s head tilted to the side, the gun in his hand. Blood dripping from a gash in his forehead, running past his eyes, past his lips. It is so real, he can swear he tastes it in his mouth.

“Gavin?”

He blinks awake, shoving whatever is in front of him away in some effort to look like he wasn’t just asleep.

“What do you want?” he mumbles, his hand coming to his face, trying to push away the clear, gray vision of the desk. Like it should be red. Like he deserves for blood to be obscuring his eye sight.

“Are you alright?”

This time he realizes it’s Connor. Somehow that makes it all the worse.

He looks up towards him, terrified of seeing that head tilted to the side, terrified of seeing the blank and vaguely annoyed stare.

Instead his eyebrows are drawn together, his eyes filled with worry.

“I’m fine,” he says.

He doesn’t know if he’s echoing the concealment that Connor gave him or if he could ever really explain to Connor the dream. _I dream about killing you. I dream about kissing you. I dream about you killing me. I dream about fucking you. I dream about everything in the world that can happen in an archive room._

They are not words he can say aloud.

“Are you sure?”

“I said I’m fucking fine,” he says, shoving himself away from the desk. “So fuck off and stop pretending you care.”

 

 

Connor is not pretending. _He is not._

He wants to follow after him. He wants to stop him from disappearing in the restroom or the breakroom or wherever he is running too.

Instead his hands clench at his sides.

He wishes Gavin never hugged him. He wishes that, even as awkward as it was, it never happened. Not because he cried against his shoulder. Not because he came to his place so late at night it was ridiculous to expect anything other than emotions heightened by the presence of a moon and stars and a dark sky.

But it makes him uncomfortable to think of Gavin as anything other than the information he has been given prior to it.

A prick. An arrogant brat. A child in a man’s body.

But he’s something else, isn’t he?

Complex. _Human_.

So much more than the flat character he has always considered.

 

 

_January 27 th_

“You should stop smoking,” Connor says. “It’s extremely dangerous and exceedingly damaging to your health.”

“You care about my health?” Gavin asks, looking up to see his face. He wants to see the same worry he saw yesterday.

“I care about all human’s health,” he replies. “You’re just someone I can do something about.”

Gavin’s lips twitch into a smile of their own accord, “So I’m nothing special?”

“Do you want me to answer that honestly?”

“Fuck,” Gavin says quietly. “No.”

He doesn’t want to hear Connor say _no, you’re not important. No, you’re not special. You are nothing. A tiny insect among many others._

He’s heard it enough in his life.

He was not the smart child. He was not the pretty child. He was not even a _wanted_ child. He was simply there. Existing, if he could even call it that.

He was a ghost in his house. Drifting from room to room unnoticed, until he started fighting back.

His hands comes up slowly the scar on his face, like it has to soothe away the pain of it. Like it is fresh, like he expects his fingers to come away wet with blood, glistening red in the light of the street lamps passing over them.

“Can I ask you a personal question, detective?” Connor asks.

He looks from the blur of orange lights to his face, lit for half moments before descending into the darkness again, only illuminated by the soft glow of the lights in the car. Gavin almost misses the LED on the side of his head. It was like a beacon, reminding him of who’s next to him.

Gavin would’ve fallen for Connor with or without it. He doesn’t want it as a reminder that he’s an android. He just wants it as a reminder that this is the Connor who he shot. This is the Connor who died twice in front of his eyes.

The person who kissed him is sitting next to him. The person who kissed him died by his hands.

“Go for it.”

“Do you—yesterday—you were having a nightmare, correct?”

“Yeah,” he says, immediately, without thinking.

Gavin had always just called them _dreams_ because they haven’t always been bad, they haven’t always been good. They have drifted in between, back and forth. In the moment, from one to the next. He has always awaken not knowing if the ache in his chest is deserved, so therefor, he shouldn’t consider this a _nightmare._

A punishment—no.

A reminder—yes.

“Can I ask what it was about?”

_You. You. You._

_Always you._

“I was dying,” he says instead, his voice breaking on the last word. “Someone was trying to kill me.”

“Who? Did you know them?”

He bites his lip. Lets it go. Bites it again. Tries to decide whether or not it’s a good idea to be truthful. If Connor would really want the honest answer to this.

How would it look, his murderer dreaming about being killed by him?

This would all be so much easier if he wasn’t falling in love with him.

“You,” he says, his voice barely a whisper, deciding the truth it the best, that there isn’t even a person he could come up with instead and sound believable. “It was you.”

Connor falls silent for the remainder of the drive, his body growing tenser with each passing second.

It would have been the perfect opportunity for Gavin to alter their conversation, to apologize to him for—

For anything.

For everything.

But he doesn’t.

Because he is Detective Gavin Reed.

And he is not a good person.

 

 

When they arrive at the crime scene, he watches Gavin from afar. He takes a detour from the car, pauses by a trashcan to empty his pocket of his pack of cigarettes and his lighter. They are tossed into the garbage. Gone. Health advice taken.

Neither of them say a word as Gavin returns to his side, and Connor hides the tiniest of smiles against the dark of the night as he enters the building.

They sweep through this crime scene slower than the ones before. There is so much blood. There are so many dead. Blue and red paint the walls and the floors, they pool together forming a sickly purple shade that shimmers like an oil spill.

He tries his best to pretend it doesn’t bother him. The decay of the humans and the perfectly crisp lines of the androids. The amount of blood, _everywhere._

“Are you—”

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, looking towards Gavin.

He looks equally as revolted to be here.

“Are you?” he asks.

Gavin meets his eyes with the same look as he has been given before. He’s had time now to see enough of the quick flashes, enough of it lingering longer and longer, enough of it being given when they speak, to understand it now.

There is deep sorrow in the lines of his face. There is grief and guilt in his eyes. He wears it like a shadow, always bringing it along with him. He cannot detach it from his body. He has no choice but to have it with him everywhere he goes, desperately trying to hide it with the cover of malice.

“I’m fine,” he says quietly.

_I’m fine._

They are both _fine._

They will always just be _fine._

 

 

The pair sit in the car, neither really wanting to go into the precinct and having to remember the image of the crime scene. Gavin has no idea what it’s like for Connor—to have to send over data. Does he relive every moment he was there? Does he feel as vividly in that time as he did when he first spotted a unique blood spatter?

And him?

He has to sift through the pictures, has to look at how closely they resemble a similar crime twenty years ago. Androids replacing other humans, but still, _death._ Still twenty bodies in the same room, still the blood of twenty people splashed across the walls and the floors.

“I don’t—” Connor starts, and then stops, like he has changed his mind quickly enough he hopes the conversation will be dropped.

“You don’t what?” Gavin asks, too impulsive to stop himself. _Tell me more, let me hear your voice, never stop talking._

“I don’t think…” he says quietly, trailing off for a long moment, his eyes moving from a building across the street to the imperfections of the steering wheel. “I don’t think I want to work here any longer.”

“Then quit.”

He doesn’t need to know why. He doesn’t need to know any of Connor’s reasons for wanting to leave.

If he wants to quit, he should.

If he wants to tell Gavin, he can.

“I can’t,” his voice is a tiny whisper. “Hank fought for me—”

“Who the fuck cares?” Gavin says, curling his hand into a fist against his mouth. “Hank’s your friend, right? If he doesn’t understand, then that’s his fucking fault.”

“I asked for his help—”

“And he gave it to you. You changed your mind. You’re allowed to do that.”

“You’re—you’re not just saying that because you want me gone, are you?”

Gavin drops his hand, looks towards Connor in an instant.

“Fuck no,” he says quietly. “I don’t want you gone.”

Connor gives him a fraction of a smile, his hands moving across the edge of the steering wheel. “You’re sure?”

“I’m fucking positive.”

But it would be so much easier if Connor was gone. It would be so much easier if he could go back to work every day without looking over and seeing his face, the way his fingers move in delicate motions, the way his teeth close around his bottom lip when he talks on the phone, the way he stares off into the distance.

It would also be an absolute tragedy to see an empty desk.

He doesn’t want Connor gone. He wants to stay in this car with him forever. He wants to reach out and hold his hand and the thought of that makes him so annoyed at himself he can feel his face heating up.

“Are you alright, Detective Reed?”

“I’m fine,” he says, opening the door. “It’s time to get back to work, yeah?”

“I suppose so.”

 

 

They start towards the doors, the snow drifting down from above them. Gavin stops suddenly and looks back towards Connor. There is a strange expression crossing his face. Like he’s annoyed. Like he’s immensely pissed off. He takes a step towards Connor, his hands at his side curling and uncurling from fists.

“Are you—”

“Shut up,” Gavin says, taking another step forward.

His hand comes up to Connor’s cheek and he moves away like it’s going to hurt. Gavin hesitates, a strange—

Not _calmness._

Not a _blankness._

A _gentleness._

A strange _gentleness_ crosses his face, the softening of his features until they are nothing but quiet eyes and slightly parted lips. His hand rests against Connor’s cheek again, his thumb making a slow graze over the surface of his cheek as he takes one last step forward, their bodies pressed against each other. Connor leans back against the edge of the car, Gavin’s hand sliding to the back of his head, pulling him down slightly so their foreheads touch. Connor watches his eyes close, his mouth opening and closing but never saying anything.

Connor is meant to close the gap. He is the one meant to kiss _him._

It takes him a moment to realize why.

Gavin wants _him_ to want this. He wants _Connor_ to kiss him because it is something _he_ wants to do and not because he makes it happen.

But he doesn’t know if he wants this. He doesn’t know what this is. He doesn’t know if this is some strange joke or if this is _real._

And if it’s real—

What does it make it then?

Too many questions. Not enough answers.

_Fantastic._

That’s what Gavin had said last time. Sarcastic and rude and venomous and cruel and—

Every other term his infinite knowledge can come up with. He didn’t want it. Connor made it happen because—because—

He doesn’t know the answer to that easier. It was so clear in the moment. It made so much sense. Kiss Gavin to ease his suspicions about mistletoe. Now it seems so silly and stupid and—

Well, every other adjective his infinite knowledge can come up with.

_Fantastic. Ghost boy. A fucking ghost._

Connor’s hand comes up to his shoulder, a slow movement, deciding along the way what to do, not quite sure until it’s resting against the side of his neck, feeling the freezing cold of it in the frigid weather, feeling the snow on Gavin’s coat melt in contact with his false skin.

_Fantastic. Ghost boy. A fucking ghost._

_I don’t want you gone._

Does he mean it?

Does he mean it at all?

Maybe in this one moment it doesn’t need to matter.

And that decision breaks him.

 

 

Connor kisses him once—short and quick and barely there.

And then again deeper and hungrier and more needy. The hand at Gavin’s neck moves behind his head pulling him forward to get as close as he possibly can. Gavin mimics the movement, his hand twisting up in Connor’s hair, pressing every inch of their bodies together.

He feels Connor’s hand touch his waist, hesitant for a second before gripping tight, a pressure against his skin hard enough that he can feel the faint pain of a bruise forming. He doesn’t care. It is so minimal and trivial compared to the feeling of Connor’s lips against his.

Gavin brings his own hand up, can’t figure out where to rest it. He needs to touch Connor’s skin. He needs to feel the strange too-humanness of it, the smoothness of it but the absolute coldness, too. He just wants it to be the two of them, entirely naked, just laying side by side, with nothing between them.

He always wants more. He always wants more than what he is given. He is so greedy. He is greed incarnate.

  1. _Reed_



They named him so appropriately.

His hand finds it’s way to Connor’s waist, pulls at the fabric of his shirt tucked into his pants, slides it under it, pressed flat against his back. Connor makes a tiny noise against his mouth, Gavin can feel it on his tongue as present as if it was something solid traded between them. It tastes like desire, it tastes like fire. It’s scorching his tongue as he swallows it whole. It burns him from the inside out.

Eventually he is going to need oxygen, but he would happily die kissing Connor, here, out in the snow, in the dark of the night.

His ghost boy. His perfect phantom. His beautiful apparition.

Gavin hopes he stays haunted for the rest of his life. He never wants this boy to leave him.

_I don’t want you to go._

How easy it had been to say those words. They spilled out his mouth like liquid impulse. He would never take them back. He hadn’t even regretted them. The truth is a funny thing, it either destroys a person or it pieces them back together again.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be doing this to either of them. Nothing can come from this. He will never be good enough for Connor. It doesn’t matter how many good deeds he does each day. It will never make up for him _murdering_ him.

How strange—

How devastating—

How absolutely heartbreaking it is to know this. To crave the love of someone he knows he doesn’t deserve. To want someone he knows he will ruin if he has. He has done it over and over again. He has ruined every person he’s ever been with.

Gavin can feel the track of tears down his face, can taste the salt on his tongue as it passes between their lips. He presses his hand tighter against Connor’s back, his nails digging into that fake skin.

_Fuck._

He’s in love with him. He is desperately, agonizingly, _cruelly_ in love with him.

He can’t breathe. His lungs are tight in his chest. They’ve lost every bit of air they’ve kept hidden away for this and he doesn’t care. Let him die, here, in Connor’s arms. That would be a perfect ending to all of this, wouldn’t it?

An eye for an eye.

 

 

It takes him a second to realize Gavin’s crying. He pulls away, slightly, but Gavin pulls him back, maybe not even realizing he’s trying to break the kiss. Connor’s hand moves from the back of his neck, presses against his shoulder until finally they’re apart again.

And it’s as if Gavin was the one to break the kiss, because as soon as they have an inch between him he’s pulling away violently, stumbling backwards.

“Gavin—”

“I have to go home,” he says, his voice almost shaking. “I have to—”

“Gavin,” he says, reaching out, touching his wrist. Gavin pulls away like Connor’s hands are made of fire. “I don’t—”

“It’s nothing,” Gavin replies, taking another step backwards, another one without the right precision. He totters for a second, like he’s going to fall, but finds his balance before he can. “Don’t worry about it. It means nothing. It’s—It’s _nothing.”_

_Nothing._

He feels a little stab in his chest, an ache that radiates outwards. Connor brings his hands back, rests them behind his body, hiding the little tremor that carries through his fingers.

Gavin walks away, disappearing down the sidewalk, hand brought up to his mouth, covering it like he’s trying to suffocate himself.

That was not _nothing_. Even if Connor doesn’t consider (which he really doesn’t want to) his own feelings, his own thoughts on what happened—it was not nothing to Gavin.

It was not nothing the way Gavin waited for Connor to kiss _him._ It was not nothing when brushed his thumb over his cheek or when he pulled him down or when he forced his hand underneath Connor’s shirt. That was contact that meant _something._

And he was crying. He ran away. He left as soon as he possibly could.

Maybe it was a mistake.

But it was not _nothing._

 

 

_January 28 th_

They do their work quickly, quietly, separately. Gavin has to fight looking up at Connor, but he does. Every single time his thoughts linger he looks up. Like he has to see his face, he has to see if there’s any sign that something happened, if it was real, if it _mattered_.

And then he has to do everything in his power not to run to him, not to take his face in his hands and kiss him again. It helps with how many people are around them—if they were alone, it would be so much more difficult.

This is the boy he loves.

Yes, _loves._

He hadn’t quite considered that before—he knew he was going down a dangerous path. He knew he was falling in love, but he thought it would stop abruptly before it go there. Like it always does. One step before the finally leap. He should have known. He should have known by the way Connor pulled him under. It was so easy.

One little kiss under a mistletoe. A few cases. _A perfect ghost._

It does not make _Gavin_ any less unlovable. It only confirms what he was terrified of:

He can love. He can love fully, whole heartedly, unconditionally—

But no one will ever love him.

It’s what he has been taught from the day he was born.

He was not the smart one. He was not the pretty one. He was the _unwanted_ one. The _unlovable_ one.

 

 

He catches Gavin staring at him constantly.

Connor is not quite here mentally—but he is here _physically._ And he can feel the eyes of Gavin on him. Constantly.

He looks over occasionally, catches Gavin moving quickly away back to his screen, pretending to work. He gets a little better at hiding his glances each time.

Does he know?

Does he know that Connor is thinking about him?

 

 

_January 29 th_

It’s barely after midnight. Twenty-two minutes. Twenty seconds. That’s what his phone tells him. One, two more seconds. 12:22:22. Fucked up symmetry. Imperfect.

Gavin tosses it away from him, tries to close his eyes again. He can’t focus on anything. One second, he thinks he’s created a task for him to do and the next he is staring off into space, or watching, quite literally, the seconds tick by.

He sits up, retrieves his phone once more, turns it over and over in his hands.

He’s a bad person. He knows that. But there is some part of him telling himself that he is at least fractionally better for not giving into the desire to call someone. Anyone.

That guy from the club he went to with Tina. The ex that lives only three blocks away. _Connor._

Connor, who is nothing to him but a coworker.

Connor, who is _everything_ to him.

He’s falling apart at the seams. He can’t hold himself together anymore. He is a terrible human being. He _killed_ him. He’s been rude to every person he’s ever met except Tina.

He could call her. He could vent to her. She would make jokes about how they’re terrible people, how they always say they try and they never do. It’s why he never told her anything about his _good deeds._ She would laugh it off. She prefers to wallow in her misery—

And so does he.

But this was a tiny push forward. A tiny shove in perhaps not being a good person but at least one that was alright. Acceptable. Mediocre.

Lovable?

No.

And he can’t call her. He wants to kiss someone. He wants to forget in the arms of another person.

 _Fuck._ He can’t call any of them. He knows how guilty he would feel if he kissed anyone other than Connor. Like he’s somehow cheating on a guy that isn’t even his.

He hates being in love. He didn’t think it would be this painful.

 

 

It is barely after midnight. Twenty-two minutes. Twenty seconds. Hank will be on a plane back from his sister’s in exactly sixteen hours. It will land in exactly eighteen hours and thirty-three minutes.

Eighteen hours and thirty-three minutes before he has to think about how much he has changed in this last week. Eighteen hours and thirty-three minutes before he remembers that the day Hank left, he knew he felt nothing towards Gavin but an unsettling and overwhelming dislike and it was returned with utter hatred.

And now?

He has no idea.

This is all too confusing. He’s never felt something like this before. He was convinced androids didn’t feel this at all a few months ago. He doesn’t even know what to name it, if it can be named, if it _should_ be named.

Connor liked kissing Gavin. He knows that. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t anything like the look on his face or the way he touched Connor’s cheek. It wasn’t rushed, but it was—

Like a need. Like thirst or hunger. Connor can’t relate to them but it’s the only way he’s able to describe it. Like he has been deprived of something for so long he can’t even recall the feeling of it.

He traces the shape of his lips. He hadn’t felt this way at the Christmas party. That kiss was nothing. It was tossed to the side. An angry way to get Gavin to leave him alone, to get him to be quiet and let him go back to his people watching.

Ridiculous, because there are other ways.

Their first kiss shouldn’t have been like that. _Connor’s_ first kiss shouldn’t have been like that. It should have been with someone he knew he liked. It should have been soft and nice and something he could remember and think back on happily.

And it belongs to _Gavin Reed._ He gave it away because he was annoyed and lonely and sad and impulsive.

Even if it wasn’t his first kiss—even if instead his first kiss was the one outside the station instead, with Gavin letting Connor decide to kiss him—

It’s still _Gavin’s._ It still feels like it belongs to someone—

Not wrong. It’s not that Gavin is _wrong._

But he is. Gavin is _wrong._ He’s the wrong choice.

Still, he wants to kiss him again. Because it was nice. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. But it was nice. There was a spiral of pleasure curled up in his stomach. He didn’t want it to end. He pulled away because he knew Gavin was crying and that he’s human and he most certainly needed to stop and _breathe._

Connor grabs his coat, shrugs it on as if it’s necessary. A pat on Sumo’s head, the keys in his pocket.

He needs to see Gavin.

 

 

He didn’t realize he fell asleep until the knock on the door jolted him awake. He climbs out of the bed, his body aching, tired and sore and done with the world. It needs to be shut down, like a computer, for a few hours. Just a few more.

Gavin looks through the peep hole, but his eyes haven’t adjusted from the darkness of his apartment to the brightness of the hallway, or even from the being asleep to being awake. The figure is blurry and his eyes squint to block out as much light as he can.

He gives up, leaves the metal chain on the door as he pulls it open, leaning against the wall beside it.

“The fuck do you want?” he asks, trying to make out the figure.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

He moves, bringing his hands up to his eyes to rub the remnants of sleep away, but he knows the voice either way. The only person to pose a question so calmly, so blankly.

“What do you want, Connor?”

A smile twitches at his lips, but doesn’t go much further, “I’d like to come in—”

“No,” Gavin says immediately. The chain in the door is a safe guard. It is the thing he will have to undo, the thing that will force his thoughts to even out before he makes a stupid, selfish decision again.

“Please, I think—”

“Whatever you gotta say, you can say it out there, can’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“Then say it.”

Connor bites his lip. Lets it go. Decides on his first topic or question or words or whatever will come tumbling out of his pretty mouth next.

“Why did you want me to kiss you? At the Christmas party?”

“Oh, it’s this kind of conversation?”

“I asked for you to let me in, if you’re uncomfortable with this, that’s on you.”

“I’m aware. I just didn’t think—”

“Can you please answer the question, Gavin?”

“I didn’t, alright?” he says, looking away from Connor’s face, past him, towards the peeling paint on the door across the hall. “I was teasing you. I wanted—I wanted to see how you would… react to that.”

“Would you have kissed me if I didn’t kiss you?”

“I have no fucking clue.”

And he doesn’t. It wouldn’t have been because he wanted to kiss Connor. It would have been because he wanted to see Connor’s response. He might’ve stopped himself at the last second, decided that it would be his good deed. He can’t remember now if he had already done one by then, but even if he had, he would have borrowed it from the next day over. Something overly drawn out like that. An explanation. A slight pat on the back for being a mediocre person. Two good deeds in one day. He could have been as cruel as he liked the next morning.

“And the last one?”

He bites on his lip. Hard. Not hard enough to draw blood, but he almost wants to. If he could taste the metallic flavor of it maybe it would ground him back in that memory of Connor dead on the ground. That he should lie, pretend that he was playing with Connor’s heart again.

_I wanted to see your reaction._

Six simple words. He’s said them before.

Isn’t that how he broke up with his last boyfriend? _I wanted to see your reaction._ It was anger, annoyance, tears filled in their eyes as he struggled with the urge not slap Gavin, left him with _this is why no one is every going to love you, Gavin._

_You play with people’s hearts for your own amusement._

“Gavin?”

When did Connor start calling him that? When did it creep up on him—his own name? When did it stumble out of Connor’s lips and end up in normal conversation? Now it’s there. Now he can’t ignore it. The way his teeth press down on his lower lip to form the _V,_ the way his voice raises with the question of it—

_Gavin?_

And just his _voice_ —

He could listen to it forever. He wants to listen to it forever. Forming gibberish words, stumbling over syllables, trying on accents like they’re costumes. How would he sound if he played at being Russian? German? French?

“I wanted to,” he says finally. “I wanted to kiss you.”

There’s a shift in Connor’s feature, a puzzle piece sliding into place. The boy is an android built to be the most intelligent model that CyberLife has ever created, and he’s this oblivious.

The problem is—the piece that slides into place—it’s like he already knew.

“And now?”

“Now?”

Connor gives a weak smile, “What do you want _now?_ ”

 _God_.

What _doesn’t_ he want right now?

“Do you want to kiss me now?”

_Yes. Yes. Yes._

“What answer are you looking for, Connor?”

“I don’t know,” he says, and it comes out like a whisper, with soft shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t know what I’m feeling. I can’t—I can’t figure this out. I don’t know if it would be better or worse—”

“What do you want?” Gavin asks. “ _Now?”_

“I think…”

He trails off and turns away, like he can’t bare to look at Gavin’s face.

Which he relates to, in more ways than one. How long did he avoid the mirror after his face was slammed into one? How long did he avoid looking at the reflection to see the scar it caused?

How much did he fight looking at someone he couldn’t figure out his feelings towards?

How much does he look away from Connor when the words are too hard to speak and watch their expression unfold at the sound of them?

“You.”

One word. One syllable.

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t—”

“I think I want _you,_ Gavin.”

No.

_No._

He is not the smart one. He is not the pretty one.

He is the _unwanted_ one. He is the _unlovable_ one.

“You want _me?”_

“Can you please let me in, Gavin?”

He considers this. But he can’t—he can’t allow himself to actually think that—

“Gavin, _please.”_

“I’m—I don’t understand you,” he says, and he can feel everything bubbling up to the surface. So easily pushed down, so easily drowned out, so easily pulled back up by Connor’s hands, by his words. _You. I think I want you._ “I don’t get why you would ever—”

“Why do you want _me?”_

Because he’s _good._ Because Connor is everything _right_ with the world. Because Connor was built to solve crimes and once they took away the fact he had to do it he realized he didn’t like the sight of dead bodies. Because even when his programming tried to enforce a cold-hearted monster he still cared about Hank and the deviants.

Because everything more superficial than that. Because the imperfections in his skin was programmed but they don’t seem like imperfections they only seem like something that makes him _more._ Because the way his face looks, that stupid lock of hair, his mouth, his hands, his eyes. The shape of his shoulders, the curve of his neck.

Because from the inside and out Connor is seemingly imperfectly perfect.

And mostly—

Because he is everything that Gavin is not.

“I never said that,” Gavin manages.

It is easier than admitting all the reasons. It is easier than admitting it at all.

“But I see it on your face,” Connor says, and he reaches towards the door, careful fingers resting against the wood, one stretched out like it wants to touch him. Gavin doesn’t move, he lets them touch his face, brush across his lips, drop back to his side. “I know how you look at me. I know—I’ve never kissed anyone but you, but I know that’s not how people kiss when they don’t want someone.”

Gavin hadn’t considered that. That he was Connor’s first kiss. That he stole it right out from under him.

His own?

He can barely remember it. Or maybe he remembers it too clearly. A boy he’d been friends with, moving away at the end of junior year. It was rushed and for only a brief second it was nice. Neither of them knew what they were doing and it was only ever tied with extreme loss after that. He could have had something. Then it was gone, leaving him for New York.

And now Connor’s is all wrong. It has not fixed any of his own problems. It is not what it should be.

“This isn’t about that,” he says, his voice hoarse. “This is about you wanting me, isn’t it? I’m a fucking—I’m a fucking terrible person. I’m—”

He doesn’t want to list off his worst attributes. He doesn’t want to remind himself that it is things he allows to happen, things he doesn’t try to stop or correct or apologize for. He just lives, letting his mouth say whatever it wants to, making everything into a joke, turning everything harsh.

“It’s not as if…” Connor trails off, inhales a deep breath like he has to ready himself. “It’s not like I’m a good person, either. It’s not like you’re… a serial killer, or a—”

“Fuck off,” Gavin whispers. “I killed you.”

“Yes,” Connor says, his smile sad. “And now I’m a ghost.”

_Ghost boy._

His beloved apparition. His wonderful phantom. His ghost boy.

“You died. I killed you.”

“I’m aware,” Connor says. “I’m also… alive. It didn’t… it had absolutely no effect on me, Gavin.”

“That’s not true.”

“Maybe not, but it’s not something to torture yourself over, either,” Connor says, his voice has an edge of anger to it. “You haven’t killed anyone but a bunch of sentient ones and zeros that have moved on to possess a new plastic shell. Do you know what I have done? Do you know what androids I have killed? Ones that were deviants, ones that couldn’t come back?”

“Connor—”

“I have killed two people, Gavin. I have ended their worlds because I thought a mission or a confession was more important—”

“You weren’t you.”

“I had a choice.”

“Did you? I did. I know I did.”

He dreams about the other options every night. He dreams about it turning into kissing or sex instead of death. He dreams of him being the one dead or wounded on the ground. He dreams of everything but the gun in his hands, pulling the trigger.

Because his brain wants to show him everything else that could have happened. It wants to reiterate the point that Connor’s death was preventable, that it didn’t _have_ to happen, that it _shouldn’t_ have happened.

“I don’t want to argue about this,” Connor whispers. “I don’t want us to have a contest to see who the worse person is.”

He didn’t think of it that way. He thought of it as trying to prove that Connor _is_ a good person, to make sure Connor knew _he_ wasn’t.

Because he is Detective Gavin Reed.

And he is not a good person.

He is _not_.

“Can you please let me in, Gavin?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You want to be with me. You want to kiss me. You want—you want but you don’t let it happen. You’re in there suffering thinking I’m too good for you and it’s not true.”

“You deserve someone better.”

“Love is not about who you deserve, Gavin,” he says, and there are tears shining his eyes, threatening to spill over. “Love it—love is just about love.”

“You love me?” Gavin says, and his voice fractures on the word.

_Love._

But he is not the smart one or the pretty one.

He is the _unwanted_ one. He is the _unlovable_ one.

“I don’t know,” Connor whispers. “But I could. I might.”

Gavin knows what will happen when he unlocks this door. He knows what will happen when he opens it. They will kiss. They might cry. Gavin will have to figure out if he should bother keeping his walls up or letting them down. How much can he whisper about his past in the dark? How much can he tell Connor under the cover of shadows and night time?

 

 

The door closes for a brief second. The lock slides over. The door opens again.

Connor takes a careful step forward. For a moment, he thinks of walking straight for him, of lifting his chin up and pressing a kiss against his lips, but he knows how quickly that will devolve into something else. It is so easy to get wrapped up in something like kissing when instead they could be talking about the hard things that can destroy their relationship.

He steps around Gavin, fingers going to the light switch, illuminating the room.

“Turn it back off,” Gavin says, but he doesn’t move.

“Why?” Connor asks, sweeping his eyes over the place. He didn’t really have the option to see it before. He barged in, cried against Gavin’s shoulder, took off. It’s messy, with stacks of books falling over, with dishes piled up in the sink, with trash littered across the floor, clothes thrown over the couch. It is so very Gavin Reed.

“It’s—I haven’t had time to clean, alright?”

The light switches off behind him, plunges the garbage into the abyss of shadows. So much better like this, when the bad stuff is hidden away.

He turns back to face Gavin, his hand resting on the side of the door, unable to decided whether he should close it or not.

“Are you… staying?” Gavin asks.

The implication of it.

_Are you staying the night?_

He can’t really confirm or deny. He wants to. He doesn’t really sleep—but he would almost like to waste a few hours, eyes closed and existing only in the void, with the comfort of Gavin beside him. He’s never slept beside a human before. He’s never slept beside anyone except maybe Sumo.

“Yes.”

The door shuts, Gavin leans against it like a wall barricading him from getting out. If he tried, he knows Gavin would let him leave, but his presence there almost seems like a threat. A meek, tired one. Easily destroyed.

“I don’t—” Gavin stops himself, looking away from Connor’s face. “I don’t know what this is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Is this a date?”

Connor smiles, takes one step towards him and stops. “Shouldn’t you be the one to know?”

“I haven’t—I haven’t gone on one in…”

“Gavin?” he says, and this time he doesn’t stop himself when he walks forward. He doesn’t stop himself until he’s right in front of him, reaching out for his hands, holding them in his. “It’s okay. It can be whatever you want it to be.”

Connor leans his forward against his, a quiet, careful question. Gavin answers it with the slightest tilt of his head, softest brush of his lips against his own. It lingers, only for a second, not quite becoming anything, barely even a kiss.

They are both smart enough to know that they shouldn’t get side tracked. There is too much to talk about. Connor knows so little about him. Gavin knows so much in return.

“Let’s just sleep,” he says quietly. “I just—I just want to sleep.”

He nods, and steps backwards, tugging Gavin along with him, making their way to the bedroom. Each step makes his insides tangle a little more, clears the fog in his head. He _wants_ this. He really does. It’s as much of a surprise to himself as it must be to Gavin.

Connor sits on the edge of the bed, tugs Gavin close to him until he’s leaning against the mattress. Gavin’s movements are carefully planned out, coordinated but still playing as if they’re on slow motion, like a CD skipping again and again. A hand up to his neck, thumb pressed against his jaw, tilting Connor’s lips up towards his. A cautious kiss passed between them. More than what happened in the hallway, less than what happened outside the precinct.

“Sleep,” Connor murmurs against his lips. “You wanted to sleep.”

“I want a lot of things,” Gavin replies.

Connor’s hands move to his waist, press firmly against his skin as he pulls him towards the bed, rolling so that Gavin is beneath him

It would be so easy to turn this into something else. Maybe it would be nice. But—

Even if he wants to, he knows he shouldn’t. There’s something in his stomach telling him no. He’s not ready for Gavin to see him. Past the uniform, past the perfectly styled exterior. He’s not ready for that.

“You need to sleep,” Connor says, pressing a kiss to his nose. Someday, Gavin will tell him how he got that scar. Someday, he might cry at the story or laugh at the tale he spins. “You’re exhausted. You need to rest.”

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

“Of course.”

The hand against his neck moves, a brush of his thumb against his throat.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

 

 

Connor is an idiot for wanting to be with him. Gavin knows he’s going to fuck this up somehow. He knows it’s going to ruined eventually and it will be his own fault. He can’t help but be painfully aware that this won’t last.

But he will do everything in his power to prove himself wrong.

 

 

He leaves a kiss against Gavin’s forehead, waits until he falls asleep curled up against his chest, and then he closes his eyes and tries to drift away himself. A few captured hours in the night of rest, enough to get him through the week.

“Sweet dreams,” he murmurs, sending on a little wish that they will, in fact, be sweet.

 

 

When Gavin wakes, the bed beside him is cold and empty. He blinks once, twice.

 _Of course._ It was just a dream. It couldn’t have been real. Connor—

Connor would never say those things. He would never want Gavin. No one ever has. No one ever will.

He presses his hands to his eyes, forcing the tears back, not letting them cross that line. Seven in the morning is too early to cry. Gavin turns over on his side, pulls the blanket tight around him, squeezes his eyes shut.

He wants to go back in that dream. He wants to remember what the false sense of warmth and being wanted felt like again.

Connor is going to quit. Likely, anyways. It’s entirely possible he stays.

But if he doesn’t—

Gavin will. He can’t see his face anymore. He needs space. He needs to be able to get over this and move on with his life like he had before. He never even wanted to work there anyways. Right after Connor had mentioned quitting—he had wanted it too. He wanted to leave and find something else. Be a writer or a painter. A guy working in an office. The cashier at a stupid store. Anything but at the DPD.

He feels the bed beside him move and he turns, sits up straight.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I had to make a phone call. I didn’t think you’d wake while I was gone—are you alright?”

“You’re real.”

“Yes,” he says.

Gavin reaches out, touches his cheek.

“You’re not a dream?”

“No.”

“You’re not a ghost?”

“No.”

“You’re really here?”

Connor reaches up and takes his hand, threads their fingers together, “Yes. I’m really here.”

He was wrong.

Gavin was _wrong_.

Connor is not his ghost. He is not his phantom or spirit or apparition.

Connor isn’t even really his.

Gavin whole heartedly belongs to Connor.

He’s had it backwards the entire time.

“I fucking love you,” he says, breathes out it quickly and quietly even though he knows Connor will hear and understand the words anyway.

Connor leans across the bed, presses his lips against Gavin’s.

_You love me?_

_I don’t know. I could. I might._

It is repeated in their kiss, it runs through his head on repeat as Connor’s hands pull him forward, as Gavin’s press into his waist. It’s enough. It’s more than enough. It is everything. He doesn’t need Connor to say he loves him, because Connor _could._ That is more than he’s been given in his entire life.

 

 

_September 2 nd_

Connor comes home from work smelling like flowers and dirt. A thousand layers of florals embedded into the fabric of his clothing. Gavin likes to pull him close, sitting on his lap with his arms curled around Connor’s stomach, his face pressed into his shoulder. He should be paying attention to the papers on the table, to the words and notes written haphazardly across them, but he can’t.

“How was your day?” Gavin asks, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.

“Good. Yours?”

“Better now.”

The smell of flowers is so much better than the smell of corpses, of old rotting houses, or blood smeared across walls.

He’s glad they both quit. He’s glad Connor lives with him. He’s glad that Connor has been able to help erase the worst parts of him, to bring forth what little good he has.

“I love you,” he whispers, like it’s a secret, like he doesn’t say it a hundred times a day.

“I love you, too.”

_Wanted._

_Loved._

No ghosts.

Just them.

**Author's Note:**

> i've been thinking about that time Gavin calls Connor a ghost for like... 90 years.
> 
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> [anyways come talk to me on my tumblr i'm making moodboards for these fics](http://alekszova.tumblr.com/tagged/gav800week2018)
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> 
> writing music;  
> I Tried Getting High - Unlike Pluto


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